SAN DIEGO - Without much prompting, Bill Romanowski would unscrew your head like a twist-off cap and pour you out on the lawn. When he's done playing in front of Raider Nation, he'll join it, modeling his post-apocalyptic riot gear with the rest of the Mad Max crowd haunting the Black Hole.

Or maybe not.

"I'm not a fan," said Romanowski, Oakland's 15th-year linebacker.

You know how hard it is to last 15 years playing linebacker in the NFL? It's like being in 20 head-on collisions every year for life. Romanowski is certifiable, but in a between-the-lines kind of way.

"I love to play," Romo said. "When I'm done, I'm not going to be one of those crazy fans that sit in the Black Hole. No disrespect to them. I'm crazy about them. But that's not me."

Thirty years after Ben Davidson and 20 after John Matuszak, the Raiders still like to position themselves as the Ellis Island of the NFL. Or, better, the Alcatraz Island. Raider Mystique, we call it. Al Davis has decided his legacy will be that of outlaw, who likes his players the same way.

Which is OK, especially in the NFL, which frowns on individuality. It'd be even better if it were true. Davis is an outlaw; he spends more time in court than Judge Judy. His team isn't.

We went looking for some Raider hombres Thursday, some really bad actors who'd look good as extras on Oz. We found Bill Callahan, the coach, who looks like he'd go bowling with you, if you drove.

"I was just this guy in the (offensive) line room (watching) film," he said, when Davis promoted him to replace Jon Gruden.

We found Tim Brown, whose wife is 36 weeks pregnant with twins. Brown has asked himself if he'd skip the game if his wife delivered Sunday. What kind of Raider is that?

We found Jerry Rice, who'd be a rebel if he could wear a three-piecer and some fine jewelry. Rice is the best receiver in NFL history. He's also about as outlandish as a vintage Merlot.

Rod Woodson would like to be a rebel, sure. But could he babysit his 2-year-old first?

Lincoln Kennedy - the offensive lineman who described Gruden, now Tampa Bay's coach, as "a little man who wants to be big" - would know an outlaw if he saw one.

"Raider Mystique?" Kennedy asked. "We're still trying to establish it."

Even Romanowski uses a hyperbaric chamber, which doesn't sound outlaw-like at all. Romo has his own "portable" hyperbaric chamber at home. So does Michael Jackson. Jacko'd fit in well in the Black Hole. He wouldn't even need makeup. Possibly, he's not the image they're looking for.

The only proof of the renegade image comes from a clot of hero-worshipping, pseudo-macho freaks in the stands, who dress up like Halloween and call themselves Violator, Goth Raider and - oooh - Skull Man. They're about as menacing as a plastic action figure.

"Not like those people at The Vet (in Philadelphia)," decided the Buccaneers' Warren Sapp, referring to Eagles fans.

Said Sapp's teammate, receiver Keyshawn Johnson: "Throwing batteries and drinking beer doesn't make them crazy. They're just fans."

The Raiders are here because they have players who can play, not because of some image subtly manufactured by Davis, their Garbo owner. Every NFL team has players other teams didn't want. The Washington Redskins didn't want Brad Johnson, Tampa Bay's starting quarterback and offensive MVP. They preferred Jeff George, yes they did.

All teams have misfits, if they think the misfits can play. It would be more accurate to call every team the Mercenaries. Including the Raiders.

But it's a cool image to have in the buttoned-down NFL. Embrace it if you want. Maybe Skull Man will shake your hand.

E-mail pdaugherty@enquirer.com

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